A Drabble
by MoonlightWalks
Summary: A short drabble. John Watson is talking to himself again. And he can't seem to get it together. Can be seen as slash or a deep friendship. T for strong language.


I don't know how long it has been. Weeks, months…years. Three to be exact, but I'm not counting. But, I am. So much, and yet, so little has happened. Coming home to an empty apartment was never easy, even before the army. But, it didn't hurt as much as now when I can't even walk into the room and hope to hear a noise. Anything would do. Something exploding even! Or that blasted violin. Or the rustle of that blue robe. Maybe, even, that-that empty noise that's still a noise no matter how many times you said it wasn't there! Just the breathing and the thoughts that swirl around aimlessly, but not aimlessly. A complex order of structure that I know is there and no one can tell me any different, Sher-!

Sherlock.

Oh, God. Not again. Not now! It just stopped. Deep breaths. Just-just deep breaths. You have to keep breathing, self. But, Jesus, it hurts. It hurts so much. I can't-I can't…keep doing this.

Oh, for fuck's sake! Stop these stupid emotions! He did! But then again, he was the sociopath. But, you were his blogger. Someone to always pick up the pieces he left the others in.

How can you pick up the pieces when you're not sure how to breathe?

I can do this. I can so do this. Maybe.

When did the world turn sideways? Oh, you idiot. You fell. How did I fall? Nevermind that. You did and now you have to get up. Get up, like I know he did, that arse. If he can fight, so can you! Now. Get. Up!

Maybe…maybe he didn't get up. Maybe I can lie here and wait for someone to take my own pulse this time. It might stop. Starvation is quite possible when you don't move.

No. Stop.

How did I end up in my chair? Does it even matter?

"Yes, it does."

Oh great. Who ya talking to, you great bugger? The first sign of insanity is talking to yourself. But, I am not talking to myself. I am waiting for a reply.

One that would never come anyway, but a reply, none the less! He always answered in his own way, if not indirectly. A hand that twitched to say he was listening. A shift in the neck to turn his ear in the general direction of the kitchen, where I would usually be demanding something from him. Oh, I have toast. And tea.

Would you like toast? Tea? A least have something, Sherlock! You'll wither away.

Or bleed out.

Goddammit! Stop! Please…please just stop coming back.

No. Please come back. I know you are still out there! Open the door and saunter in, like you always do. I don't care if you're covered in blood again! Or smell like that cigarette that you keep hidden and think I don't know about. Just come back. Please. I really cannot take this.

I have moved on, though. On the outside. I still work down at the clinic. I still talk to people. I still breathe.

On the inside, however, it never stops. I can always hear you. It freaks me out. I think I might actually be going insane. I've snapped. Funny, they always thought you would snap first, right? Oh. Am I taking out loud again? Or was that a laugh? I can't remember.

I can remember your smell though. It is everywhere and I hate it. Or love it since it is there. I can hear you on the stairs when I'm reading the paper. Another murder, you would find it trivial. I can almost feel you turning the doorknob. Did I even close that? Ha, word search. Another word for complete sadness? Depression. I can almost sense you walking slowly into the room, like water. I heard that water is associated with calmness. I wonder how I might react to you actually being behind me like you are right now. I have pictured it many times. I would laugh and finally smile, embrace you and maybe kiss you however you wanted me to, even though you said you hated touching. Or crying even harder than before because nothing can stop me. Or both. I like the embracing idea. Or even get angr-

Wait.

What?

"John."

Oh, you fucking bastard.

* * *

So, had this in my mind and it would not go away. And, hey! I am not dead! *Commence Partying!*

As usual, Sherlock belongs to the BBC and its fabulous writers. All mistakes are mine.

Reviews always makes the author happy!


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